The God Is Not Willing

Steven Erikson

 

The bandit leader, Balk, was slouched on the cell’s wooden bench, his back to the stone wall. This cell and three others were on the opposite side of the compound from the barracks that had been turned into a prison for Balk’s Company. Normally, the gaol was reserved for the occasional murderer or drunk, someone from the company ranks, where some private adjustment of behaviour was required. Usually with fists, only occasionally with a knife across the throat.

Spindle sent the garrison guard out of the corridor and drew the stool the guard had been seated on up closer to the cell’s bars. Balk glanced across at him briefly before returning his attention to the floor, where three dead rats—necks obviously broken—made a tidy small pile.

Something about the scene made Spindle frown. ‘You’re not a necromancer, are you?’

There was a faint gleam of bared teeth. ‘No. I am not.’

Relaxing, Spindle sat down. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘The self-styled Baron Rinagg of Fool’s Forest. Seems he was pretty sick to begin with. Dying, I’m told. But we got what we needed out of him before he died.’

‘And what did you need from him, Sergeant?’

‘He had something on you, and it was enough to extort your participation.’

‘Participation in what, exactly?’

Spindle shrugged. ‘I take it you were a mercenary company, and what started out as a basic contract of service eventually turned into something else. Banditry.’

Balk glanced up a second time, his eyes mostly hidden in the shadows pervading the cell. ‘The baron was asserting his right to rule the region. Tithes and tolls. Not banditry.’

‘Aye, I get it,’ Spindle replied. ‘But tithes and tolls are administered by the empire. Those imperial title-holders who manage that also hand over most of the taxes to the regional collector. No one appointed Rinagg, and he handed over nothing.’

‘The baron had been a soldier,’ Balk said. ‘He’d fought against the invasion.’

‘Yes, well, he lost.’

Neither man spoke for a time. Then Spindle rose and rubbed at his face. He arched his back and winced slightly. ‘You are nobleborn, or so my captain believes. A man of honour. Your followers certainly think so.’

‘They should’ve ignored my fate,’ Balk said.

‘Had I killed you, I’m sure they would have.’

‘And then you would have lost.’

‘Probably. So, I’m wondering, what were you doing with a company of four hundred veteran mercenaries, wandering through Fool’s Forest? The empire doesn’t hire mercenaries. It couldn’t have been to take Rinagg’s coin. Not at first.’

‘And why not?’

‘Because the man was a nobody. Even with his taxing the caravans and loggers in the east, he couldn’t afford you for long. Whatever he had on you was serious enough for you to work against a loss, probably emptying out your own holdings all the while.’

Balk looked away, seemed to study one of the walls. ‘Know much about mercenary companies, Sergeant?’

‘Ran up against a few, aye. Years back. Most of ’em barely held together even when the going was good. Show them a mailed fist and they’d scatter more often than not. It takes a special kind of fool to give up a life for coin. With a few exceptions, the empire would buy them out and then break them up.’

‘And the better ones?’

Spindle moved to lean his back against the wall opposite the bars. He crossed his arms. ‘There were two, maybe three,’ he said.